


The Weapon at Hand

by Yahtzee



Series: Baby Did A Bad, Bad Thing [1]
Category: Alias
Genre: Domination, F/M, Revenge Sex, wow wrong bad hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sloane's satisfaction is galling, but Jack reminds himself that Sloane expects to fight him for Sydney.  It's the battleground Sloane is used to, after all these years.</i></p><p>Jack has decided to change the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weapon at Hand

Over the metallic clang of pots and pans and the rushing of water, Jack hears Nadia say, "It's just not enough, somehow."

"Your relationship with your dad?" Sydney's voice is more muffled; probably she's the one washing the dishes. "Your father's – a hard guy to know."

Leave it to Sydney to be restrained only when she should least be.

"It's not that." Nadia's footsteps click on the hardwood floor; she must still be wearing her work shoes. "He'll answer any question I ask."

Jack doubts this, but he remains focused. He shuts his eyes – nothing to look at but the dashboard lights of his car, anyway – the better to hear what's happening inside his daughter's apartment.

Nadia continues, "He loves me. He loved me before we even met – completely, utterly. It's everything I ever wanted."

"Sounds nice." Sydney's words cut him, though Jack had already anticipated the blow. "But I'm still not seeing the problem."

"There isn't any problem." Splashes almost drown out the last word. "I guess – I waited my whole life to work for my father's love. I wanted to earn it. This isn't what I expected, that's all."

This is as much as Jack needed to hear, so he shuts off the listening device and drives home. Sydney deserves some privacy.

**

"This is your idea of a report?" Jack raises his eyebrow, fixing the all the considerable strength of his glare at Nadia.

"It covers the pertinent facts –"

"I see. You've decided for me what is and is not pertinent. I'm glad that your analysis skills are so richly developed after only three months in the field."

She tosses her head back. Some women are lovelier when they're angry, but Nadia isn't among them; her cheeks redden and her eyes narrow. "I only meant to save you time. As I think should be clear."

"Don't do me any favors," Jack replies, and he leaves her without another word.

The next two reports are both exhaustive in their detail, so much so that they verge on parody; Jack is amused to read about Dixon scraping off a beer-bottle label with his thumbnail just before a mission. He makes no comment on these. The third report Nadia files with him is also heavily detailed, but more focused, without the haze of anger. For two days, he says nothing about it, then casually, in the hallway, finally tells Nadia it was good work.

Nadia smiles, a quick flash of radiance that renders her even more beautiful than usual. He doesn't smile back, but he nods, acknowledging her happiness and accepting it. From a distance, later that day, he watches as Sloane sidles up to her, compliments her, promises her dinners and long talks about the past. Although Nadia responds warmly, her eyes hold nothing of the brilliance of the smile she gave to Jack.

**

"It's good that we're all working together again," Sloane says as they finish up one day. "The way we used to. The way we always should have done."

Sloane was Irina's lover. He still, to this day, pretends that he could be Sydney's father. There is nothing that belongs to Jack, that has ever belonged to Jack, that Sloane has not tried to take away. He tarnishes everything Jack loves with his touch.

"I couldn't have done this, before," Jack replies. He doesn't smile as he speaks; Sloane wouldn't expect it. "I had to – accept – certain truths."

"Some things take time." Sloane's hand grips Jack's shoulder, a sign of solidarity and trust. "But it was worth everything we went through, to win our friendship back after it all."

Jack nods. "I'm only sorry it took me this long to believe you."

"And how long before Sydney believes?"

He has watched his daughter's slow relaxing into her role, her cautious acceptance that Sloane may be on the level. (Sloane actually might be on the level; Jack neither knows nor cares, not anymore.) It hurts Jack to imagine his daughter's trust in his enemy, but he has to admit it's becoming possible. "We'll have to see."

"Not too much longer, I hope." Sloane's satisfaction is galling, but Jack reminds himself that Sloane expects to fight him for Sydney. It's the battleground Sloane is used to, after all these years.

Jack has decided to change the game.

**

When Nadia requests assignments, Jack denies her two times out of three – and he chooses those times arbitrarily.

When she turns in reports, he praises warmly the ones done to his exact specifications, and either ignores or disdains the ones that deviate from those specifications in any form.

Her disguises are, like Sydney's, often sexually suggestive; all Jack's calculation cannot fully mute his response to the sight of Nadia in an orange bikini on the Brazilian coast, in a sapphire-blue evening gown in Paris, or in crimson leather motorcycle gear on a back road outside Mumbai. But Jack never, ever praises her beauty – except once, on a cloudy afternoon at the office, when she is dressed very plainly and seems a little blue.

"You look nice today," Jack says, barely glancing at the slim gray pantsuit she's wearing. "It's – flattering."

Her cheeks get pink, and it looks much better than when she gets angry. "Thanks," she says offhandedly, but he notices that she wears that suit, and others like it, more often from that day on.

She yearns for approval; more than that, she yearns to yearn for approval, to find a way to recapture the longing that has driven her for so many years. Jack gives her that, and it costs him nothing, and nobody seems to notice. At times, he is almost moved by the open need in her eyes; Nadia is so young, and all Jack's fury is insufficient to convince him that her parents' sins are her own.

But Jack has learned not to ask too many questions about revenge. Asking questions ensures revenge will never come to pass, and he's waited too long to stop now.

Besides, he's not out to hurt her. Jack means for Nadia to enjoy this. The more she enjoys this, the more complete his victory will be.

**

He resists being assigned to missions alone with her for months, until Jack begins to think it will draw comment. Then he accepts a chance to work with Nadia – and only with Nadia – in Tokyo. They'll infiltrate a nightclub; Nadia will draw the owner's attention while Jack downloads certain interesting computer codes the man stores in his hard drive. They've run variations on the theme a thousand times; Jack could do this in his sleep.

That gives him plenty of opportunities to embroider upon the pattern.

They enter the club separately, but it takes Jack only a few moments to glimpse her; even in a crowd of models and actresses and glamorous creatures, Nadia stands out instantly. She is wearing a dress of black lace, with thin straps and a deep neckline, and her hair is gathered up to expose the long curve of her throat. It reminds him of Grace Kelly a little.

Through the neon-blue haze of the club, their eyes meet. They shouldn't acknowledge each other at all, but Jack smiles. Nadia smiles back. It's the only guarantee he needs.

When the club's owner drapes himself over Nadia, Jack slips upstairs and cracks into their computer system in about 45 seconds; Marshall's tools never fail. As he works, binary code flashing green and gray too fast for the eye to read, Jack wonders what Nadia is doing with the club owner now – how far she has to let him go. He knows, from a dozen highly uncomfortable briefings, that Sydney is skilled in the art of delaying men; this is perhaps a trick Nadia hasn't mastered.

He doesn't want her touched, not yet. Jack is jealous of this man he doesn't know, this faceless shape who shouldn't matter at all. But he doesn't let that distract him from his work; his talent for compartmentalizing comes in handy, sometimes.

Once Jack's done, he begins casing the upper floor very carefully. The low bass thump from the dance club below muffles his footsteps. It's low-tech up here – old chairs, wooden floors, a painted screen that divides a small closet from a larger room. Jack studies the screen for a few moments – red silk panels, with parasols in golden brushstrokes – before taking his comm. link and clicking it in the pattern that will summon Nadia to his side.

She's there in only minutes. Her violet-painted lips are still glossy-bright; the man downstairs never even kissed her. "What's wrong?" she whispers.

"I picked up a secondary signal," Jack says. Nadia has no hardware and can't double-check his claim. "I can't read it. But if we could find the source –"

"Got it." Nadia almost stumbles over a loose floorboard – how she walks at all in five-inch heels is a mystery to Jack – but she quickly regains her footing and starts looking for the transmitter that isn't there. Jack briefly reconsiders his timing; this is potentially dangerous, and there is a limit to the level of risk he'll willingly expose her to. But there's no backing out now.

Besides – her black dress, her long neck, her high heels, those glossy lips – he doesn't want to back out.

Just as she begins flipping over the mirrors on the wall to check, they hear footsteps outside. Jack grabs her elbow and steers her back into the closet, behind the screen. The only light that reaches them flows through its panels, staining them red.

Nadia leans back against him, and Jack catches her, one arm around her waist, the other around her shoulders. The contact makes her gasp, and into her ear, he whispers, as quietly as he can while speaking aloud, "Be still."

She obeys his order. He thinks she has been waiting a very long time for someone to give her orders. Her heartbeat is pounding through her back, against his chest.

The front room fills with sound – three people? No, four. If any of them decide to step into the closet, Jack will need to get to his gun in a hurry. But they don't; instead, there's laughter, and chattering that Jack can only catch a few phrases in. Japanese isn't one of his stronger languages.

Nadia is still breathing hard, trembling slightly against him. Adjusting his weight slightly, Jack grips her more tightly, so that her body is fitted against his own. Her head tilts back, only for a second, but Jack already knows she likes this. He's primed her for this moment for months, and he doesn't think she'll disappoint.

He slowly draws one hand up her belly, along her side, up her arm. Nadia's head jerks sideways, as if to meet his eyes, but Jack is looking down at the curve of her breast, the infinitesimal space between the black lace of her dress and her skin, shining brighter in the gold from the parasols on the screen. His fingers brush against her dress strap, toying with it, asking permission without saying a word.

She shrugs – not in indifference, but to guide the strap to the edge of her shoulder. Jack exhales into her dark hair as he tugs it the rest of the way down, then brushes his lips against the curve of her neck. Nadia's body tenses, and one of her hands closes over his atop her chest.

One of the people outside the screen laughs, a sharp sound – only a few inches away. Nadia trembles, but Jack keeps kissing her throat, lightly, silently. They cannot make a sound.

It is Nadia who guides his hands to her breasts; Jack dares not unzip her dress – even with the endless rhythmic pounding of the music below, a zipper might make too much noise – but he pushes the cups down so that he can cradle her in his palms, tease her nipples with his thumbs. Nadia raises her hands above her head, raking her fingers through Jack's hair and lifting her breasts higher.

He watches the silhouettes of the people outside – who are still talking, still laughing, looking for no one and suspecting nothing – as he slips one hand downward to the hem of Nadia's dress. It's short, so he only has to slide his hand up a few inches before he runs into the straps of her garter belt, the warm flesh of her naked thigh. He clutches a handful of the flimsy thong she's wearing and tugs it down and away.

Nadia makes a soft whimpering sound in her throat, and Jack freezes. It's not so much that he's worried the others will hear – they're still carrying on – as that he wants to make it clear to her that she can't make a sound. She can't respond. If she wants more, she will have to be quiet.

Nadia silences herself instantly. Good girl.

Jack slips two fingers inside her, closing his eyes as his skin becomes slick. He feels his way, imagining what she'll be like – the angle, the tightness, how they'll fit. Her arms are braced upon the wall now, her legs trembling so much that he wishes he'd thought to coax her to step out of the high heels. Then again, he likes them on.

The music echoing beneath them slows down – it's still a dance beat, but more deliberate now. Those outside are talking about getting something to drink, and Jack wonders if they'll leave; there are advantages and disadvantages to either choice. But when they all laugh at some shared joke, loudly, he takes advantage of the noise to unhook his belt. Slowly, he pulls his hand from Nadia to unfasten his trousers; he doesn't touch her at all as he works, and she remains there, splayed against the wall, waiting for him.

Then he pushes her legs a little further apart, guides his cock up against her heat, and thrusts in hard. Nadia's hands spread out, tense and white with either pleasure or pain, but then she pushes back against him and Jack knows it's pleasure. For his own part, he knows a dizzying rush of sensation; he's spent so long planning this, but he forgot to prepare himself for how good it would feel.

They move together, slowly, almost to the beat of the music; Jack covers her hands with his own, holding her against the wall, getting close enough to kiss the back of her neck. He ought to stroke her to climax, but not yet.

He wants her to work for it first, and he knows she wants that, too.

The music and the laughter echoes, just behind the painted screen.

**

They get out of the club and to the rendezvous without incident. The first moment they're alone, Jack says only, "In Los Angeles," and Nadia nods, as if she understands.

And probably she does – she may understand more, besides. Nadia is malleable, but she isn't dumb. For the purposes of Jack's game, it's all right if Nadia does know his motives, his calculations. She only needs to accept them, and she has.

If she is really his co-conspirator, and not just his target, so much the better. This will last longer if Nadia is working with him, and he wants it to last a very long time.

The APO briefing goes smoothly. Jack finds it strangely difficult to look at Sydney while he lies about the second signal. Nadia seems completely unruffled, so much so that it's almost insulting.

But when he strolls up behind Nadia at the coffee machine, he hears her breathe in sharply. Without changing the expression on his face at all, he murmurs, "Tonight, when you leave the office, I want you to go to my house. I have security measures, but I think you're good enough to get through them. When I get home, I want to find you in bed, and I want to find you ready."

Jack leaves without waiting for an answer. He purposely stays a little late at APO, drives a little slow. Anticipation mingles with nervousness; there's a decent chance she's blown off his proposition and is safely at her own apartment. At this point, no amount of planning can guarantee Nadia's response. Jack will just have to find out.

He opens his front door, listening carefully. No sound, save for the jangle of his keys as he drops them on a nearby table. Quickly, Jack slides open a small panel on what most observers would think is a thermostat; a single red light blinks in a staccato heartbeat. Jack smiles. She got through most of the security measures, but not all.

When he gets to his bedroom, Nadia is waiting, naked atop his sheets. Her clothes are neatly folded in a chair; Jack covers them with his own, watching her eyes darken as he undresses. She never moves or says a word, despite the fast rise and fall of her chest; she's waiting to do whatever he tells her to do.

So he tells her.

The next day, he meets with Sloane privately to discuss the next mission's goals. Sloane serves tea. He has the edgy, overly familiar air that Jack knows is a sign of insecurity.

"I'm glad that you finally agreed to work with Nadia," Sloane says. "I would have thought her presence would be – difficult for you. A reminder of painful subjects, and our shared deception at Irina's hands."

So Sloane no doubt hoped. He knows the balance of power has shifted, but he hasn't guessed why. He probably won't guess for a very long time to come.

Jack remembers Nadia as she was last night, kneeling on his floor, opening her lips for him.

"I can handle it, Arvin," Jack says. "Trust me."


End file.
